The Morning After

The last thing I heard before I went to bed the night of Super Tuesday was Hillary Clinton on the television warning Democrats –“a vote for Bernie is a vote for Trump. If you go to bed with Bernie you are going to wake up with Trump”.

Which I assumed to be a metaphor, of course.

I was not prepared for Donald Trump’s warm, slightly reddened body laying next to me when I woke up this morning. He was making some sort of half wheeze, half snore, and his hair was lying on my extra pillow like an errant wave haphazardly crashed upon the wrong sea.

I looked around for my clothes (oh thank god, they are on) and started to creep out quietly from the far side of the bed when Donald Trump, awakened by the movement, rolled over and caught the waistband of my pajamas playfully. Come back here he said, engulfing me in a sweaty, overly warm spooning embrace, his morning breath on the back of my neck.

Apparently I’m now dating Donald Trump.

How did this happen? I vaguely remember the last night’s caucus, the cafeteria of the local high school filled with tables and old ladies yelling out precinct numbers, bewildered people meeting their neighbors for the first time, the Bernies at one end of the table, the Hillarys at the other…

Over breakfast Donald Trump reads the paper, drinks his coffee with three lumps of sugar and half a cup of cream, eats a bear claw. After breakfast Donald Trump wants to take me to the amusement park. I can tell he’s trying to be romantic, even though he is still wearing a suit and tie and we are followed by a camera crew. You’re beautiful he says. Isn’t she beautiful he asks one of the bodyguards. Buy her an ice cream or something. Do you like ice cream? he asks, not waiting for the answer. Get her a banana split with an extra banana—do they still have those? he says, dragging me to the Wild Chipmunk roller coaster. Here, you like roller coasters, right? She’s beautiful, take her picture.

The camera crew takes my picture and I’m hoping no one recognizes me. Donald Trump’s talking to the ticket taker at the merry-go-round—what do you mean I have to buy tickets? I have dollars, see, do-llars. Habla Ingles? Dollars aren’t good enough for a carousel ride these days? Where’s your manager?

The ticket taker waves us through and Donald Trump tucks his arm through mine and I smell the aftershave that I won’t be able to stop smelling for the rest of the day. Hey, I got you a present. You like presents, right? he says, handing me a giant purple stuffed giraffe. I don’t ride those things myself, I get indigestion he says as I climb onto a waiting horse, waving as I disappear.